


cruel

by ollie_oxen_free



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alternate Universe - Swapfell, Public Torture, Violence, and i honestly like it too much not to post, mention of ownership, this is a vent fic that i wrote, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 04:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollie_oxen_free/pseuds/ollie_oxen_free
Summary: the word that seems to best describe the queen and their underground in general.though, at this point, he's grown used to it.





	cruel

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall. guess who's not dead?

There’s not much reasoning behind most of the Queen’s orders. She speaks, lips curled into a sneer and eyes both dead and horrifyingly alive, ordering for individuals to be moved or brought to the courts for reasons often drudged up by her own paranoia. But still they happen, as the only thing more certain than the Queen’s insanity was the fear that was held in her regard. Rumors were spread, whispered in the darkest corners to scare children into staying indoors or to give a drunken fright to those who frequent the bars and slums of the Underground. Rumors about the fate of the previous King. About the Queen’s own children. About the countless others who had disappeared without warning when they even dared to think against her, shuttled to the dark and mysterious horrors of the lab or to the cold abyss of the dungeons.

When Sans walks through the snow to see his front door splintered into the interior of the home, shards of wood littering the ground and standing stark against the white, he thinks at first that someone had been foolish enough to rob them. It wouldn’t have been uncommon. Visitors from the capitol, seeking the lawless chaos of Snowdin, often held their heads high in pride at their status, taking what they wanted. There was order in the madness, though. He’s taken down his fair share of higher-ups, brushed enough dust from his gloves to not need to worry about missing any of their possessions for long.

He enters the house slowly, magic primed and wisping up from his sockets in opaque flames as he primes himself for attack. Instead he sees the royal inginia stamped in wax on a piece of folded paper set in the center of the floor. He picks it up, barely glancing over the words of public punishment before he becomes aware of another presence in the house.

The paper falls to the floor as he turns, dropping down low and ready to dodge, to see Papyrus standing in the doorway of the kitchen. His hood is pulled over his face, masking his expression, but he’s come to read all the tells, he knows all the twitches and the postures that show that he’s none too pleased with the notice. There are shards of wood on his jacket, tangled in the fur of the hood and stuck into the fabric of his clothing, and Sans barely begins to make the actions to scold him for breaking down their door once more in a fit of rage before he’s growling, one hand coming up to claw at the side of his face.

Sans glances down at the paper now face-down on the floor, looking at the neat tri-fold and the spot on the edge where the wax had been broken away by his reading, before he takes a step towards his brother, watching his body tense from his approach.

“We’re to report to the capitol.” There’s a moment of silence before Papyrus growls once more, deep and threatening and  _ angry. _ Sans thinks that there’s a reason why he calls the other ‘Mutt’ and ‘Mongrel’ when they’re in public before he turns, making his way to the door.

It’s another moment before Papyrus follows, trailing fury behind him like there’s something that he can actually do against a direct order from the Queen. Sans snaps his fingers as they exit Snowdin, the pebbles of Waterfall crunching under his boots into the dark, packed sand of the ground. For a moment he thinks it hasn’t done anything, but then Papyrus lets out a shaky burst of air, the violent aura around him being reigned back in before a hand lights on his shoulder.

They pass through the section that leads from one room to the other before he feels blackness surround them suddenly, everything pulling and stretching around them as they’re placed just before the door of the Queen’s courts.

The silence stretches. Agonizing. Deafening. And then the doors in front of them swing open and Sans steps into the vast arches of the courts. He strides in, paying no mind to the small crowd on either side but still listening to every whisper and breath of sound. From the corner of his sockets he glimpses Papyrus walking only a few paces behind, hands slung casually in his pockets and eyes hooded. If he didn’t know better, Sans would think that he was almost relaxed.

He stops just in front of the throne, takes his hand into a fist and rests it just over the insignia carved into the breastplate of his armor, kneels down until he’s resting his knee against the floor. The Queen sits on her throne just in front of him, her face blank and eyes a burning red. He hears Papyrus stop beside him, watches as he merely stands there, staring at something on the floor, before he kneels as well. His hands remain in his pockets. It’s tense in the room, the few guards and citizens and other higher-ups keeping their stares on his back. There’s only one reason why guards are called to the courts outside of receiving orders. 

“Sans.” The Queen’s voice is smooth, even. There’s no dips or changes due to accent or vocalizations whatsoever, the same, monotonous speech being used for every word. Still, they were commanding, they provoked fear. “There’s been reports of your property damaging royal possessions.”

Sans keeps his head down, ignores the faint flash of reflected light he sees from the tag hanging from Papyrus’s collar, ignores the way that the small flinch his brother makes at the words causes the tag to swing back and forth like a pendulum. He says, keeping his eyes trained on the floor, “I’m sorry, my Queen.”

The throne creaks but still he doesn’t look up as the leather shifts and the wood stretches when no longer trapped under her weight. She pads towards him, feet only breaths of sound against the tile of the floor. “Captain.” The footsteps stop. Sans lifts his head only slightly, keeping his eyes pointed down. His hand is beginning to cramp from how tightly he’s clenching it. “Report to the square for punishment.”

He nods, stands, gives one final salute before he turns on his heel, gaze trained forward. Papyrus falls into place just behind him, and as they leave he can feel the Queen’s stare on his back, just between his scapula. The heavy doors shut behind them, thudding into place and separating them from the stare of the tyrant. They would see her soon enough, though. His steps are silent as he makes his way through the winding halls of the castle grounds, out through the doors of the front. It’s then that Papyrus speeds up to walk closer behind him, the spaces between his steps coming slightly shorter as he increases pace. “Sans.” There’s no one around them, but he still feels himself tense up at the address, turns his head to the side slightly as the corners of his mouth twitch down. “M’sorry.”

He doesn’t hold the gaze, barely even glances to the side long enough to connect their eyes before he’s facing forward once more, continuing down the winding halls. “There’s always consequences.”

The footsteps beside him go back to their usual pace as Papyrus slows, not saying anything in return. There’s nothing  _ to _ say. The halls continue to twist around them as they walk down a path that Sans has long since memorized. It takes them to another set of doors, the guards on either side stepping apart with a small nod of recognition as they open the doors. The thud of a salute follows them in as the guards turn to face one another, the sound echoing on the bare walls of the room.

Sans doesn’t stop as he walks through the corridor of the royal prision, eyes drifting between the thick bars to the dark interiors of the cells. In the distance there’s the faint drip of water against the cold stones and occasionally one of the monsters behind the bars- monsters that he’s put in the cells- shift as they attempt to get a glance at who’s passing. They’re out soon, though the small ounce of relief he takes at no longer being in the dungeons is gone as he stops in the center of the room, looking over to the doors that lead out to the square.

There’s a monster in the corner of the room, a hood over their head. Sans can’t make much more out of their figure due to the royal robes and concealed features and for that much he’s grateful. The monster shifts, gesturing to one end of the room with a small table, and Sans stares at it for a few moments before he walks over, hands reaching up to hover over the clasps of his armor before he begins to remove it. The resulting thud seems heavier than it should but he ignores the resulting spark of anxiety in his chest, pulling at his soul and sending a near-imperceptible tremble down his spine. The gloves come off next, and then the shirt and his bandana. He sets his boots beside the leg of the table before he stands, the chill of the room washing over his bare torso as he turns and looks at the hooded figure.

They dip their head, pushing from the wall and making their way to the door, pulling it open before standing to the side, waiting for him to cross into the open area. He hears the crowd talking through the open door, their voices seeming to flood the otherwise quiet area. The light of the square stretches across the damp floor, reaching out into the dark before finally dying in the dim. He steps into the square of light, his bare feet clicking on the floor as he clenches his naked fists, keeping his shoulders back as he leaves the room. He sees Papyrus take a step, as if to follow, before moving back, shoulders shrugging up just under his chin as he moves back to the wall furthest from the door, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat before pulling out a small bottle. The pills rattle as he shakes out a few, popping them into his mouth and grinding them to powder between his teeth.

Sans frowns but says nothing, fingers curling into loose fists as he steps fully into the light, the door scraping against the ground as it slides shut behind him. He takes in the sight of the royal square, of the small pedestal in the center surrounded on all sides by benches that are filled with countless upper class, all holding themselves with various degrees of snobbery. They’re always the first to be informed of punishments, of who and what and where they’re going to happen. Sans has seen gold flash as it exchanges palms between the aristocrats and guards for prioritized seatings for watching certain individuals. 

There’s more monsters lining the walls than he’s ever seen before, some even standing to try and get a glimpse of the center. Sans wonders, just for a moment, how many of them he’s pissed off in his duties for such a turnout, or if the punishment of the Captain is just too tantalizing to resist. A few words are murmured among the crowds as they lean into one another, all of their eyes trained on him. He thinks he sees a few bags of gold passed around, as if in a bet. This is all taken in within seconds of him walking out, his skull barely turning more than a fraction of a centimeter as he makes his path to the center.

He takes the small step up to the platform, even more on display than before, and then approaches the cuffs set into the concrete. He stops in the center, face blank and hands hanging at his sides as he stares straight ahead. The Queen’s booth rests just in front of the platform, facing him, the gold-lined royal insignia casting a faint, warped reflection against the ground just in front of him.

He feels rather than sees the monsters that step out from the small doors built into the sides of the area, hearing their steps as they approach. Fighting down a flinch, his face stays mercifully blank as they take his hands, pulling them forwards and latching the clasps around them. He’s hunched over, the feeling uncomfortable, but he doesn’t have much time to think on it before the backs of his knees are hit, knocking his legs out from under him and making him hit the floor hard enough to send a cold shock up his femurs.

There’s a small bout of laughter that comes from the crowd. Sans forces himself not to react as he keeps his gaze trained forward, watching as the curtains surrounding the Queen’s box move apart, showing her sitting on the small throne inside. She only makes appearances for the larger punishments. Sans tells himself that he should be honored that she would attend his torture and has to fight down a scoff of a laugh because of it. The Queen lifts her head, chin tilting up as she stares uncaringly down her nose at him. He finally looks up and meets her gaze, keeping his face as blank as her own. What she sees in his face must amuse her as she smiles like she doesn’t quite know the expression but is pleased regardless, a hand lifting from its rest on the arm of the throne to snap once. 

The crowd goes silent and in the quiet Sans can hear another door from somewhere behind him open. His fingers clench, the only physical reaction he has to the sound of footsteps approaching. His gaze stays locked on the royal insignia carved into the space just below where the Queen sits. The footsteps stop. It’s silent. Then he hears the whistle of a whip and the harsh crack in the air. He flinches despite trying to fight it, cursing himself internally for the weakness at a simple sound, despite past experiences. His gaze stays fixed on the delta rune, on the crisp corners of the white shapes against the dark purple background, catching a slight nod of the Queen’s head just before the whistle sounds again.

Pain sparks over his scapula, breaking down over the width of the bone and making him hiss. His jaw stays clenched. He fights to keep his breathing steady. Another strike over his ribs and spine, the tip of the whip wrapping around the bone before it’s cruelly yanked away. It leaves a deep gash in his wake, marrow flowing to the surface and already beginning it’s slow trail down his bones. A whistle sounds before each strike, the only notice of the blow as they come in different frequencies, in different areas. 

The sharp end of the whip slashes across his ribs, strikes the slight crest of his pelvis over the rim of his pants, hits the sides of his ribs and wraps around the front to leave gashes over his bones. His jaw aches from the force of which he’s clenching it, the struggle that he’s making to stay  _ silent _ -

The whip wraps around his lowest rib, catching, and as it’s yanked away once more his body resists, his body doesn’t  _ want _ to be pulled apart, yet the whip refuses to let go, and with a sickening crack he finally screams, his floating rib falling away and starting to dust. He clenches his teeth too late, breathing erratic and only serving to jostle his injuries, and despite better judgement he looks down. He sees the gashes over his body, sees the marrow dripping down to darken the already black material of his clothing, and spread across the blood pooled on the ground he glimpses a faint gray powder like macabre glitter, shimmering faintly in the light. There’s not much time for him to do more than glance at the dust,  _ his  _ dust, before another whistle fills the air.

This time, when it hits, he can’t hold back a scream. 

**Author's Note:**

> come bitch at me on [tumblr](https://ollie-oxen-free.tumblr.com/) where i will occasionally do shit


End file.
